


The Music of a People Climbing to the Light

by waitingtobelit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Christmas Fluff, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Kid Fic, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mistletoe, Multi, Musicals, Other, Romance, Romanticism, Self-Esteem Issues, Social Anxiety, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 12,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles involving various characters, pairings, and situations in Les Mis. A blend of movieverse and the Brick. Multiple characters and pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courage

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided since I've been writing a bunch of drabbles for this fandom lately, I'm just going to put them all in here. My previous two will stand on their own but every other drabble can be found here.
> 
> This first one is an E/R piece from Grantaire's perspective, from the "Paris/Look Down" scene in the movie.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. All variations/characters belong to their respective owners, this is written just for fun.

Courage

Grantaire’s bottle quakes with the vibrations of a thousand voices ringing out, though there’s only one in particular that draws his attention. Enjolras stands above the crowd on a platform, Marius on the other corner. They’re both preaching the good word of General Lamarque but Grantaire doesn’t catch the entirety of what they’re saying. He shrugs to himself as he takes a swig from his bottle.

He’s not here for ideals or to change the world. He doesn’t believe in justice or liberty, not really. The statuesque figure with angelic blonde curls looms over everything else, drowning out even the crowd surrounding the platform. His voice is to Grantaire what revolution is to the people of France. His passion serves as the lamppost that illuminates the road in the dark.

Grantaire flinches at the first sight of the police, but he does not hesitate to rush to Enjolras’ side. He only catches his fearless leader’s eyes for a moment before the crowd separates them, but in that moment, it is enough.


	2. Gunpowder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Marius had taken the bullet for Eponine instead? An AU drabble based entirely in movieverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep on getting inspired for different ideas in Les Mis, particularly during the barricade scenes. So this happened. I'm extremely interested in exploring different "what if?" scenarios, especially in regards to Marius. Anyway. This could stand alone as it's own one shot, but I already have ideas for potential continuations of this idea, so I'm putting it with the rest of the drabbles.
> 
> Also published on my Tumblr account.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Mis. This was written for recreational purposes only.

As he scurries from left to right, shooting at every sign of movement, his mouth tastes like copper, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the adrenaline or the blood from biting down on his lower lip too hard. Marius Pontmercy has never been known for thinking rationally under normal circumstances, but thrown onto the barricade swarming with soldiers and students, he sheds caution like the money he has always refused from his grandfather.

 

  But their bullets and gunpowder are hardly slowing down the National Guard. The night air is fogged with smoke and panic; he can hardly make out the sign for the Café Musain as he tries to reload his rifle with non-existent bullets. He curses under his breath, scanning around him for any sort of viable solution.

 

  He spies the powder keg between a chair leg and the top half of a table. He bolts to it and cradles it in his arms like a babe as he makes his way to the top of the barricade, ignoring Gavroche’s cries of “Marius, no!” in his haste.

 

  But he doesn’t move so fast that he misses Eponine bounding up like an eager puppy beside him. He practically tastes the bullet as the member of the National Guard raises his gun and Eponine moves to intercept him. Marius shoves her so that she all but falls. Guilt creeps into his thoughts as the rustling movements of the other students to catch her ring in his ears.

 

  He feels the bullet before he hears the shot. His future with Cosette falls through his grasp as the barricade trembles beneath his feet. Pain shoots throughout his body as though he’s been struck by lightning right in the stomach. Horrified gasps and screams, Eponine’s the loudest, surround him as his vision starts to go black. He stumbles but he doesn’t fall. Not yet.

 

  Gritting his teeth as he gathers what remains of his strength, he keeps his grip on the powder keg and grabs a nearby torch, holding it just above the top.

 

  “Back away now or I blow the whole barricade.” His voice is no more threatening than the slight fall of rain that’s begun, but he shrugs off Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s supporting arms anyway. He would be damned if he wouldn’t live to see this through.

 

  “And yourself with it?” The member of the National Guard standing just in front of him is almost a ghost in the flickering light. He’s never felt so much pain in his life but he won’t die until his friends are safe for at least one more night.

 

  “And myself with it.” He nods, his whole body trembling as he remains on his feet.   

 

  The guard only hesitates a few seconds before calling off his men. Enjolras grabs the torch from him just as he swoons into Courfeyrac’s arms.

 

  His head sways on his shoulders and he catches glimpses of red all across his front shirt as Courfeyrac and then Enjolras carry him to the bottom of the barricade amidst the crowd of students. Combeferre is shouting obscenities at him. Courfeyrac and Enjolras lay him down in the corner, resting his body between them. Even Grantaire appears sobered. Marius sees the certainty of his fate looking into the other man’s eyes. Cosette is lost to him in this lifetime.

 

  “Marius what were you thinking?” Enjolras’ strained voice cuts through his reverie as he glances up at his closest friend, blond ringlets dampened by rain and sweat and eyes framed by restrained tears. Another failure in his life. If they were to die, they were supposed to die together.

 

   “I’m sorry,” he croaks, coughing in between words as life flows out of him in crimson rivulets. “I’m sorry I hesitated,  I’m sorry I doubted - ”

 

   “Hush,” his friend motions to another figure emerging to his right. “Rest, Marius.”

 

   He recognizes Eponine by her soft touch. Even with hands roughened by the streets, she is gentle as she cradles him. Marius doesn’t feel the rain but the quiet strength of her body warms him. He hears a distant drumming as breathing becomes a chore and the world shrinks to just Eponine above him.

 

  “It was supposed to be me, I was supposed to. You have so much more to – oh!” She takes a parchment from within her bosom and hands it to him. “This is for you. I’m sorry I kept it from you, I…”

 

  With the last of his strength, he pushes it away, shaking his head as much as he is able.

 

  “Do this one favor for me, ‘Ponine. Tell…tell Cosette I love her and…”

 

  The drizzle stops as his eyes close at last.

  


	3. Lonely Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius returns to his apartment after a night out drinking with Grantaire. Courfeyrac is highly amused. Courfeyrac/Marius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I should preface this by saying Marius is pretty much my bicycle for this fandom. I ship him with just about everyone. I have a particular soft spot for him with Courfeyrac though, and I've been wanting to write them for awhile. Also I just needed a break from all the angst/dark fic I've been writing recently, so here we are. 
> 
> This is a mixture of movie and bookverse, set before the events of 1832. Probably can be considered fluff. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Mis. This was written for purely recreational purposes.

   “I see Grantaire has gotten you drunk. Again.”

   Marius stumbles back well past any sort of respectable hour into the apartment he shares with Courfeyrac, half-emptied bottle of wine dangling from his left hand. It’s the third time this week alone, and he really ought to ignore Grantaire’s taunting by now. Ah well. He’ll do better tomorrow, he promises himself as he holds onto the wall to keep himself upright.

    The dim candlelight distorts the small living space into a haze of worn down furniture and haphazard shadows. He giggles at a rush of movement that is most likely a rat as his roommate raises his eyes in amusement.

   “Well, give the bottle here then. It’s a sin for wine to go to waste, and you’re in no shape to finish it yourself.” His friend is not quite laughing at him from behind his dark brown curls.

    Marius protests that he is, in fact, almost sober when he trips over air, nearly landing flat on his ass. Courfeyrac has to steady him, wrapping his arm around his waist before thoughtfully snatching the bottle just before it slips to the floor.

  He starts a bit at the sudden embrace, a rush of warmth as though he were suddenly standing before a fire surging through him. A voice in the back of his mind reminds him that this is the first time anyone has held him steady since his childhood.

  Courfeyrac all but drags him over to the mattress, Marius leaning on him like a wounded soldier. Naturally, in true Courfeyrac fashion, he drops him unceremoniously upon it as soon as they reach the edge. With an indignant “oomph!” he flails and almost falls on his back.

   “Now, you’re not going anywhere,” Courfeyrac says, pushing firmly on his shoulder to keep him from getting up as he settles down beside him. “So you don’t embarrass me in public.”

 “I am not an embarrassment. I told you I’m fine!” Marius glares at him, but the effect is ruined by his untidy, auburn hair sticking up at all angles around him and the rouge-like blush covering his entire face. His friend grins wider as he takes a large swig from what remains of the wine.

  “You’re as flushed as a virgin, friend, so forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

    Marius sputters at the comparison, which only further encourages Courfeyrac. He takes another swig before casually draping his arm across Marius’ shoulder.

  Marius freezes. He blinks and he shudders. The weight of his friend’s is almost uncomfortable, pulling him close in a rather intimate manner. Part of him wants to protest. It’s too much and yet it’s not enough. The rest of him recalls Grantaire’s teasing, how he’s “forever swooning, too lost in his own dreams to take action.” (Which he finds rather hypocritical, but he wasn’t about to start another argument with the man after his fourth glass of wine.)

  In the end he welcomes it. The strange novelty of the situation warms him as much as the alcohol he’s consumed. Perhaps he’s even lonelier than Grantaire assumes as he leans into his friend without any further hesitation

   “…have you even been listening to me at all?” The other man ruffles his hair to catch his attention. Marius starts against his surprisingly gentle hand before deciding that his friend’s touch is actually quite nice. He nuzzles him, much to Courfeyrac’s surprise and delight.

  “God, you’re a friendly drunk,” he says as he finishes the wine with one last gulp. “Lucky for you, so am I.”

  Before Marius can react, Courfeyrac pulls him forward by the collar and kisses him soundly. He flails like a dying fish for the first few seconds of it, the rapid movements of his arms propelling him into falling forward into his friend, who takes the opportunity to pull him closer and kiss him slower.

  He realizes he is kissing Courfeyrac back when he realizes the other man tastes like wine and books. Not nearly as smooth as Courfeyrac, of course, but suddenly Marius understands that he enjoys this. He enjoys the way his chest tightens with each clash of their lips, the surge of bubbling warmth that stems from his friend’s fingers dancing across his neck.

  And he recognizes then that he is not alone.

 


	4. The Lark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Society insists on naming her a dove when she remains a lark at heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have a lot of Cosette feelings? Yeah. I adore her, and this is basically my manifesto as to why. Based on a mix of both the movie and the book. Cosette/Marius.
> 
> Posted here and on my Tumblr.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Les Mis. This purely for recreation.

   When she awakes to the early sunlight casting empty shadows in the tussled blankets beside her, she knows. The sheets recently indented with his shape tell her where he has gone and that he will not return before night fall. She can still smell the brandy he drank before retiring to bed the previous evening.

   She turns over to face the wall, her blond hair falling across her face and obscuring her vision. The pale pink of the wallpaper whispers to her in the dawn as she begins to stir, arms heavier than usual as she lowers her feet to the floor. The cold wood sparks against her skin. She shivers and tosses her hair behind her. She closes her eyes tight before opening them fully to face the sun.

   Society insists on naming her a dove when she remains a lark at heart. Oh, she attends social functions and she walks to church with her husband every Sunday. She hosts dinners and she attends to the poor in the way her dear Papa taught her. She loves Marius with all of her gentle heart.

  Yet for all her porcelain appearance, Cosette is still the young child walking barefoot through the woods. She still runs barefoot through the snow at night while Marius sleeps. She feeds the children of the streets as if they all belong to her unwilling womb. When threatened with darkness she holds hope up with the strength of a veteran soldier. Vines and snow-dulled moonlight frame her heart just as much as her husband’s presence.

   This morning as she dresses herself, she pulls her hair back into a knot and does not bother with stockings. This morning she flies alone, the door closing behind her with hardly even a whisper.

   She meanders through the garden without specific purpose or regard for time. The dirt and grass, barely concealed by a mild frost, nip at her bare feet the way Marius sometimes kisses her neck. She gulps down the morning air like water, letting her arms fall to her side as she dances past the lilacs. She has honed the art of love through nature, in spite of the nuns who once proclaimed her homely.

  Cosette pauses a moment later to catch her breath. A branch breaks beneath her feet and she knows she is slightly bleeding. The sun now sits fully in the sky, smiling down upon her. She doesn’t smile back, eyes drawn instead to the shapes forming in the back of her thoughts.

  In her life she must always make room for the ghosts. The flickering spirit of her mother that dwells in the name she utters every night like a prayer: Fantine. The memory of her Papa, never once spoiled by the letter he left for her. No, in fact, the opposite. The story of his life brings tears to her eyes every time she revisits it. The idea of love as transformation propels her forward.

   She leans against the gates of her fence and gazes out onto the streets, where the revolutionary dreams of her husband’s friends now lay silent. For she must always make room for Marius’ ghosts. Two years since the student uprisings has aged him two decades. Cosette never knew his friends in life but she knows that Enjolras loved his country more than anything and that Courfeyrac was a gentle, laughing soul. She can tell strangers the extent of Grantaire’s drinking problem and recite some of Combeferre’s arguments by heart.

  Children frolic around the adults beginning their morning strolls. Little girls provoke little boys into running games. Cosette sees him in their smiles, his eyes bright and innocent when he is not hunched over at his solitary table. She shakes her head, strands of her hair flying into the wind. As much as she misses him, she knows he needs this time alone. Time to comfort his many ghosts so he doesn’t become one himself.

  The blue eyes of a child startle her out of her reverie. She looks down to find a curious creature dressed in rags observing her the way she has been observing the world.

  She moves from her position to pick a flower to hand to the young, redheaded girl who always stops to stare at her house. The girl brightens immediately and runs off to show the rest of her friends. Cosette feels her heart lighten at the way the girl embraces the wind.

  She turns then and runs to give herself over to her garden completely. For she’ll need all the strength she can harvest from the roses, the lilacs, and the lilies. She runs through the dirt and lets her hair down so that she can catch the resilience of the breeze. She stops to collect various flowers along the way, arranging the bouquet she desires to give to her husband in her mind.

  For Marius will not weep as he reenters their house. He will not weep at the sight of her flowers. He will not weep as he sheds his jacket and takes his place by the fire; he will not weep as he picks up a book but does not read. Marius will not move until Cosette takes his hand and leads him away.

  Then she will shelter him. Then she will hold him close in the dark, beneath the covers and away from the ghosts.

  Her feet echo as they hit the ground harder, her breath coming faster.

  Then Marius will weep. Then he will fall into her arms as she steadies him like a part of the barricade.

  The day chases her through the flowerbeds as she runs in circles. Her heart quivers but she does not fall.

  She is the lark that carries two hearts through the night.

  


	5. Poetry Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roses are red, violets are blue. The child Cosette likes to watch Jean Prouvaire go red in the face. A drabble set within the "Friends of the ABC Daycare" universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may enjoy writing these characters as children way too much. This is definitely not the last you'll see of this AU from me. 
> 
> This idea in particular struck me last night and I just had to explore it. I like to think Cosette and Jean Prouvaire would have gotten along well had they ever met in life. Anyway, this is a follow up to my "Friends of the ABC Daycare" story, but you really don't have to read that to understand this drabble. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written purely for recreational purposes.

  A quiet little boy with auburn hair, Jean Prouvaire sits at one of the tables in the corner of the classroom with only a piece of paper and a red Sharpie for company. The rest of his friends are plotting yet another revolt in the back corner with teddy bears and toy trucks, but Jean is happier here. His right hand scribbles away furiously as he chews on his lip in concentration. He does not hear the approach of tiny, delicate feet behind him.

  “Oh, whatcha doing Jean?” Eponine leans over his right shoulder. He yelps and desperately tries to cover his work, but Cosette’s nimble hands prove too quick for him as the paper disappears out from under his trembling arms.

  “Give it back!” He shouts and flails as Cosette backs away, holding his prize above her head and reading it.

   “Roses are red, violets are blue?” The floral carpet does not ease the awkwardness of hearing his words spoken aloud the way Jean hopes. He glances up to find the two girls staring at him and Marius scowling at him from the back of the room.

  “Is this poetry?” Eponine asks, her nose scrunched up in confusion. Jean prays to God for the carpet to swallow him whole.

  “I like it.” Cosette smiles at him as she hands it back and Jean thinks he now knows what love is. He shyly pushes the paper back into her grasp.

  “You can keep it, if you like.” His whole face feels on fire as her blue eyes brighten and Eponine looks between them in confusion.

  Marius gapes at them, not even wincing as Grantaire tosses a teddy bear at his head.

  “Thank you,” she says as she leans in quickly and kisses his cheek before giggling and striding away with Eponine in tow. Jean can only watch them leave as he grips the back of his small chair to keep from swooning.

Marius’ face contorts into a thundercloud, his tiny fists clenched by his side. Enjolras, approaching him rapidly with a scowl of his own, grasps his face and all but shouts “NO!” at him. The other boy can only pout as Enjolras possessively drags him off by the hand.

  “But Cosette, I thought we agreed that boys are dumb,” the other girl protests loudly.

   Cosette looks back and catches Jean’s eye with another smile as he feels his heart drop to his feet.

  “He’s the excep, expec.” She shakes her head and tries again. “He’s the only not dumb boy here.”


	6. Playthings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The power of a glance proves more powerful than Eponine ever could have expected while out on her errand for Marius. Eponine/Marius, Eponine/Cosette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always wanted to write Eponine/Cosette so this is my first foray into that area of fandom. I love both characters equally, and I wanted a chance to explore an aspect of the movie that happened off-camera. Thus, this is the result. I definitely plan on writing more for this pairing because I love them.
> 
> Oh, and for everyone who has been reading, bookmarking, giving kudos and otherwise keeping up with this piece, thank you so much. I appreciate it. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written just for fun.

   When Marius asks her to find Cosette for him, the cracks in her chipped heart deepen further. Yet Eponine smiles on the outside, teases that she’s “got him all excited now,” and agrees to the task at hand.

   As soon as he’s about his way she breathes faster, hands clenched into fists by her side.  What she wouldn’t give to be the cause of that light in his eyes, to be the reason that he all but dances away from her like an actor on the stage. Eponine yearns for him the way she once yearned for her precious porcelain dolls. But he is not hers to cherish or hold, a reality that clings to her like fog as she follows in the direction she saw Cosette and the older gentleman run.

  She almost mistakes Cosette for the doll in the toy store window every girl in their village used to fancy. (If she’d had that doll, before it disappeared the same night as Cosette, Eponine would have liked to name it Catherine.) Bundled up in a dark blue dress seemingly fabricated from clouds and a bonnet that just barely contains her light brown hair, the other girl seems to Eponine the porcelain figurine come to life.

  The older gentleman has Cosette by the hand, all but dragging her along after him, and Eponine matches their movements expertly from her distance. Eponine recalls in her movements the way Cosette leapt out of the way of her own mother.

  She wants to hate her as she follows her into a rather unfortunate alley crawling with rats and the least experienced pickpockets. She wants to despise her for existing, for stealing away what was hers. She clutches the sides of her skirt as the pair turn the corner and pauses to catch her breath.

  Eponine remembers the night her mother told her a stranger had come to take Cosette away, that they’d never have to deal with her “wretched, ungrateful” manners again, and praise the good lord for that. Later that same night, she’d overheard her parents yelling about debts and not striking while the iron was hot. The next morning, in Cosette’s absence, Eponine took on her responsibilities. 

  Gavroche grew older though no one was looking and Eponine was the one to fetch the water from the well. She envied Cosette then. She wished desperately that she, too, could find a benefactor in the woods. Looking on the girl now, Eponine wants to hate her most for being loved and cared for.

  Gradually her dolls and dresses fell into disrepute as her parents’ ran out of money and affections. They had only so much to spare, after all. She considers herself lucky to have had any of it at all – Gavroche knew nothing of even an idea of a mother’s love.

  But Eponine tries not to dwell on that thought as she races to find her targets again. She weaves in and out of crowds as the sun starts to go down, her pulse practically on fire with her longing for hate. She stops on the Rue Plumet as the gentleman and Cosette finally slow down before an intricate yet ruined iron gate. The man hurries inside, but Cosette hesitates and glances back.

   Eponine meets her blue eyes by accident. The ragdoll and the porcelain princess, two playthings once set on the same shelf, come together again after so many years. She wants to run, she wants to hate. She cannot bring herself to do either. The power of her gaze steals the breath from right out her lungs. Eponine clings to the brick wall to keep herself steady as Cosette remains still, a puzzled frown gracing her lips.

 Cosette remains only a second longer before turning away and entering the archaic gate.

  Eponine, for once, finds Marius eclipsed in her thoughts.

  The ragdoll ponders whether the porcelain doll would grant her space on her new shelf.


	7. A Flowery Band to Bind Us to the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan, in his quiet way, nurtures the friends he holds dearest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Jehan so much and I love John Keats so I basically combined the two and got this. The title comes from “A Thing of Beauty,” and there are references to “Ode To A Nightengale” throughout. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables or any of the Keats poems previously mentioned. This was written purely for recreational purposes only.

Jehan often says nothing during meetings in the Café Musain. He takes comfort in his own silence, watching the others and occasionally dancing his pen across the page when the words ensnare themselves in his thoughts, as messy as his hair. His heart delights in catching new ideas as they flutter around their tables as fragile and as beautiful as doves. Though he doesn’t contribute in the same way as his friends to the cause of revolution, Jehan likes to think of himself as steadfast as Keats’s bright star and his friends the song of the nightingale, a melody half in love with glorious death. 

He may not often speak, but he always listens, whether Enjolras, looming like a mountain range above them all, espouses romantic odes to Patria, or Combeferre spouts philosophy like an overrun stream, nurturing yet passionate. He drinks in the bitter words Grantaire spews like bad wine the same as he breathes in Courfeyrac’s kind nature. He heeds Joly’s advice on how to avoid illness. He smiles gently at Bossuet’s poor luck. His friends make up his most cherished garden, and he so loves to watch his garden grow.

And so tonight, while the others give Marius grief as he falls in love, Jehan admires the purity of the young law student’s soul as it glows tender amidst the shadows of fate. For love nurtures hope, and hope provides the soil in which flowers of all natures can grow.


	8. Holy the Air, the Water, and the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius and Cosette take strength from each other and their loved ones on their wedding night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because I am so tired of the ‘if Marius and Cosette are your favorite characters, you are wrong’ attitude I’ve seen cropping up on the internet lately. So in my anger I wrote this. I will never stop loving either character and this is basically my manifesto as to why. Title comes from Keats’ “Ode to Psyche.” 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written purely for recreational purposes only.

Their wedding is a grand affair at his grandfather’s insistence. Unknown faces overwhelm him like a troupe of actors and though the orchestra plays beautifully, he feels he might drown in a sea of strings. Marius would prefer a quieter, more intimate ceremony with him and Cosette alone, but glancing at both the luminous smile upon her face and the warmth of relief in his grandfather’s eyes, he quiets his doubts and spins his beloved wife around the room once more. He appreciates reconciling with his grandfather as much as he adores the light in Cosette’s blue eyes. With him, one burden, at least, is lifted from his soul. With her, his heart is made as light as water, as wild as air, and as devoted as fire.

Still, when the Thenardiers make their grand appearance, all powdered grace and clumsy manners, it comes almost as a relief to Marius. (He can only make so much small talk with the bourgeois that makes him ache deep in his bones.) Though they aim to perturb his happiness with their news of Valjean, they instead reaffirm his beliefs in the man now proven to be his savior. As much as he revels in the sensation of his fist against Monsieur Thenardier’s face, (he fancies Bahorel and Grantaire smiling down on him from heaven at the force of the punch) Marius also feels a kind of gratitude towards the Thenardiers for providing him with an excuse to abandon the party early.

Sitting with Cosette an hour later in the convent as they watch her father gradually part from the world, guilt creeps into his conscious as she sinks into his arms. He holds her tight as his thoughts wither at her sadness upon her wedding day. Yet he knows this truth, however harsh it may be, far outweighs the false sweetness of preventing her from seeing her papa one last time.

The distant drums ring out in their ears for the first time that night, more reckless and beautiful than the symphonies of their wedding. As they hold onto each other, two branches deeply intertwined even as storm winds rage around them, the voices of their loved ones settle into Marius and Cosette’s gentle souls. The revolutionary embers extinguished in his friends spark within him anew as the deep love of the mother she never knew and her beloved father rise within her like a sweeping tide.

The drums beat as loud as their hearts as they fall into bed at the house on the Rue Plumet. They throw themselves into devotion like children throwing their kites to the sky. They fall asleep holding hands.

In the morning, they are ready to rise. 


	9. Moving Slow to the Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's thoughts during the Final Battle scene of the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for my friend Caitlin who requested “something e x r” and this is the result.   
> Title comes from the Augustana song, “Fire.”
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written purely for recreational purposes only.

He awakens with the wine weighing down his tongue like the scent of gunpowder in his nose. Red seeps from under his feet and the shadows of uniformed men waver in and out of his vision, serpentine nightmares he still can’t quite figure out as he stumbles forward from behind the bar. 

The wine bottle he fell asleep with crashes on the ground. He doesn’t feel the broken glass as he continues, gradually, moving forward.

He thinks he hears people screaming but the ringing in his ears is only silence.

All of his friends lay in a pool around his feet like the red that encircles them. His stomach churns and he almost retches when, like divine light, he catches sight of Enjolras standing alone in the corner, red flag clutched in his fist by his side. He simply stares for a moment, his heart clambering to the surface through his throat. He sways, and not even the alcohol in his blood stream can numb the inevitable that bursts forth from Enjolras’ eyes, almost black in the gold light of the afternoon sun. 

He resists the urge to fall to his knees, to worship the other man like an angel carved from marble. He wants to sing hymns in his name, to exalt him on high, and to throw himself at his feet. This man who believes in nothing finds rapture in the form of a dead man walking. 

So he staggers forward and takes his place by his angel’s side.

Clasping desperately at his hand, he turns and meets the eyes of those shadow soldiers.

It’s okay, he thinks as they take aim. 

He is bathed in light.


	10. Devil's Makers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine and Cosette grow up wild together. Eponine/Cosette. Drabble. AU in which Valjean never rescues Cosette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently when I get angsty I write Eponine/Cosette drabbles. 
> 
> Also, title comes from the First Aid Kit song, “Wolf” and the entire concept comes from Eponine being a complete badass.
> 
> This is also the closest I've written to smut in ages.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This is for recreational purposes only.

Daughters of wolves, they roam with all the decadent confidence of libertines, picking the pockets of drunkards and seducing students into relinquishing their knowledge as thet see fit. Sometimes they buy themselves drinks. Sometimes it’s books. Most of the time they throw it all into the sea. 

The brunette with the olive skin turns to her ragged, golden-hair companion and the streets of Paris become the forest to their reckless wanderings. They sell their bodies to the night wind just to see where it will take them. They plunder, they run, and they brawl beneath the pallor of the moon, which, in its turn, enshrines them in a glow so pure it might almost be called holy.

But the pair of them saunter far from vaguely downwards beneath such grandeur. Cosette sings lullabies sweeter than honey into Eponine’s ears as they fall back against the wall, laughing and grasping at each other’s skirts. Eponine turns these lullabies into obscenities as she presses the words into her lover’s skin with her fingers. They twist and they turn, biting and clawing their way to oblivion. Sometimes church hymns slither in between them but Cosette is quick to drown them out with the crescendo Eponine, from between her legs, invokes with her rose petal lips. 

If they don’t dissipate after that, they flee as Cosette returns the favor and the pair of them collapse to the ground, dirty, spent, and rendering the moonlight meaningless with their matching smiles. For they are young, they are alive, and they belong only to themselves.

As incandescent Paris in the evening rages, they howl.


	11. The Dead Dead Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has carried around his burdened heart his entire life but he cannot carry it through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to A Fine Frenzy’s Pines album gives me so many Marius feelings, and thus, this. Title comes from her “Untitled (Grasses Grow)” song. Also, this is really not happy, just a head's up.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written for recreational purposes only.

He awakens surrounded by floral prints on walls, cradled in a bed frame gilded with gold. The white sheets latch onto his skin like leeches, sucking at him harder with each shaky movement he attempts to make. His tongue weighs down his mouth like gunpowder, so that as the man he presumes to be his doctor approaches, he cannot speak.

(“ _A miraculous recovery!”)_

He knows without question that he is the only one of them to survive the barricade. His bones ache with guilt and his heart creaks under the phantom footsteps of his friends who wander past.

He is Ophelia floating on the river, his skeleton covered with the petals of flowers so as to ease the eyes of the doctor that glances upon him with pity. The water embraces him, but just barely. The thorns press into his sides, provoking red from him the same way the blood of his friends now water the meadows of France.

Beside him, a lark sings, but he cannot make out the words to her song. Not when the water calls to him so sweetly from below.

He writhes on the bed, hands clutching for purchase as terror reigns in all the cracks beneath his skin.

( _“No, you were doing so well! Stay with me now!”)_

The lark begins to scream.

Hands, familiar hands that used to chide him for his distraction, hands that welcomed him into his apartment, hands found curved around a bottle of wine, hands destined for poetry, and the hands that intervened with the bullet meant for him all emerge where once the water wandered. He sinks and they welcome him.

He collapses under the dead weight in his chest.


	12. All I Ask of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine hates musicals. Cosette is determined to prove her wrong. Shameless fluff. Modern AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: So I saw the 25th anniversary Phantom of the Opera for the first time and got overwhelmed with emotions, hence this. Also I just really adore Cosette/Eponine.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables or Phantom of the Opera. This was written for recreational purposes only.

Eponine detests musicals, as she reminds Cosette every time she attempts to sneak in Rent or Hairspray on one of their stay at home date nights. She makes ridiculous faces, complains, and withholds kisses until Cosette relents with a sigh, for she would never purposefully do anything to make Eponine unhappy. That, and she can never go for longer than five minutes without kissing some part of Eponine, a habit developed after their first night in bed together. (Somehow her lips always end up on the pulse point on Eponine’s neck.)

Cosette and Eponine have been together for over a year now, having both graduated from university with degrees in music theory and art history, respectively. Of course, they’re both putting said degrees to good use in the restaurant through which they first met, but they have steady hours and they make rent on time every month. Eponine, having grown up practically on the streets, considers them rather wealthy. Cosette considers them very lucky, indeed.

One day, Cosette, her long, blond hair pulled back in a braided bun, her “flower child” style, as Eponine so eloquently puts it, comes home from a particularly long afternoon shift prepared to do battle, cradling a rented copy of My Fair Lady close to her cleavage which almost pours out of her overly tight work shirt. If nothing else, she will at least attempt to employ her body as a weapon and perhaps they can pass the rest of the afternoon in bed. (A tactic which, up until now, has only really worked when employed by Eponine on Cosette.)

She expects to find Eponine at her usual post on her days off, sketchpad in hand, perched on the windowsill while her right hand dances madly across the page in time with the pulse of the city below them. Instead, as she turns the key into the practically nonexistent lock and pushes through their narrow door, the gentle lull of a fading melody greets her. She starts when she recognizes the last notes of the “Grand Finale” from her copy of the 25th Anniversary of the Phantom of the Opera.

“‘Ponine?” She calls out, dropping her patchwork purse gracelessly in the corner of the thin strip of tile they call a kitchenette and placing the DVD on the red counter. She tilts her head as she blows a stray strand hair out of her face. She swears she hears weeping underneath the music.

Cosette walks over to their sorry excuse of a couch (more of a couple of bean bags tossed next to each other) to find Eponine sprawled across them, entranced by the images on the screen.

“Don’t look at me!” The other girl, her black hair tangled around her face, turns abruptly to bury her face in the depths of the blue bean bag that holds the upper half of her body. Her voice is raw like the whiskey she typically drinks, and the olive skin of her exposed arms trembles.

Cosette kneels beside Eponine, a small grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. She feels somewhat victorious and prone to crowing, especially considering how triumphantly Eponine paraded about when she converted Cosette to cigarettes and hard liquor. (“Daughter of wolves,” Cosette calls her whenever she grins like she’s just devoured some innocent woodland creature and passes her another glass of Jack Daniels. “Little lark!” Eponine retorts before pulling her close to kiss her to the point of breathlessness.)

Yet she manages to restrain herself, settling instead for running a hand through the wilderness of Eponine’s hair and nuzzling her cheek against the bare skin of her arm.

“Ugh, why was I given emotions.” Eponine moans, still turned away from Cosette. Cosette says nothing, only nuzzles her harder as she strokes her hair like she would pet a cat.

“The Phantom’s face, and Raoul’s voice, and Christine’s everything. I hate musicals!” She declares for the millionth time. Cosette has been keeping count.

Eponine still faces away from her, and her body still trembles. Cosette pauses for a moment before her small grin transforms into a sliver of celestial radiance.

“No more talk of darkness,” she leans up to sing directly into Eponine’s ear. “Forget these wide-eyed fears. I’m here, nothing can harm you.”

Her voice builds as she goes along. Her hand stills in Eponine’s hair as Eponine herself gradually stills. Their apartment all but fades as Cosette sings, the melody encompassing the pair of them so that no outside influence can intrude. Eponine at last begins to turn around.

“Love me, that’s all I ask of you.” Cosette finishes as Eponine lifts her head to meet her gaze. Eponine’s eyes are rimmed with red; her mascara runs haphazardly down her cheeks. Cosette thinks there is no sight more beautiful in the world.

Only a second passes after Cosette’s final note before Eponine pounces, pulling Cosette by the sleeve of her shirt so that she falls on top of Eponine. Eponine rolls so that she pins Cosette beneath her, a mad, wolfish grin illuminating her face as she lowers her lips to those of Cosette.

They kiss with the abandon of sea foam throwing itself on a rocky shore. Tongues collide as hands fumble to seek purchase in wayward fabric and suddenly heated skin. Eponine wedges her thigh between Cosette’s as Cosette sneaks a hand beneath her t-shirt. They kiss as if they will never run out of breath.

Eventually, Cosette relents and Eponine pulls back, both of them remembering that they do, in fact, still have to breathe. Cosette burns with the flush that colors her cheeks like roses, pleased to notice the same effect on Eponine above her. Eponine leans her forehead against Cosette’s as they seek temporary reprieve from the madness of each other’s bodies.

“Alright, little Lark. You win.” Eponine mumbles against her lips. “I love musicals.”

 

 


	13. Broken Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a request on Tumblr for "anything featuring Enjolras, Grantaire, and folk music." Very much inspired by Mumford & Son's album, Babel. Gen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written for recreational purposes only.

Grantaire normally avoids bands like this, folk artists tailor-made for arrogant intellectuals. He much prefers the rough edges of local punk bands almost too high to perform. Yet the crowd around him pulses in time with the surprising violence of the music. The bar is ready to burst, filled to the brim with youths eager to forget their age and older patrons desperate to remember their names. Guitars and banjo clash together like rain against pavement, and Grantaire, caught between the recklessness of youth and the resigned fortitude of middle age, finds himself swept up in the fury that bleeds with each refrain. He leans against the back of the bar with all the appearance of a careless observer, though the slight trembling in his hands in harmony with the music proves otherwise. 

He makes to take one last swig from his bottle when he finds it shattered into fragments on the ground. He shrugs, figuring he’s drunk enough as it is, when the music shifts from defiance into sadness. He scoffs, waiting for the melodramatic first chord of “Wonderwall” so that he can sneak out for a smoke without any guilt. 

His eyes land on the lead singer just as he begins to play what is most definitely not Oasis. With golden hair that frames his face in ringlets and eyes as blue as the depths of the ocean, Grantaire thinks this man must belong to the angels. His voice, previously shouting obscenities, transforms into the melancholy of a fading birdsong to match the quiet despair of the guitar. Grantaire stumbles over himself, almost into the wall, as he absorbs that face singing those words the way a mother would cradle her child. 

What remains of his drunken incoherency fades into a faint buzz like the fog of cigarette smoke permeating throughout the bar. Grantaire, without full realization of his own movements, shoves his way to the front of the crowd with all the fervor of a revolutionary.

Grantaire thinks he might believe in folk music, after all.


	14. Origin of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine is not a morning person; Cosette is far too chipper this side of 8 am. But at least there’s coffee. Modern AU.

“For the love of God, Cosette, it’s not even eight in the morning.”

Eponine shuffles into their living room, dark hair even more out of place than usual due to a fitful night’s sleep. Sunlight filters through their living room, casting light over the recently cleaned carpet like dust. Cosette takes advantage of the lack of debris on the floor by bouncing around like an animated lamp from a Disney movie, singing at the same volume as the Mika song blaring from their radio on top of the coffee table. Eponine can only wince as gold tendrils of Cosette’s hair glance against her face as she dances closer to Eponine.

“Yes, and it’s a beautiful morning!” Cosette grins, and in the sunlight appears like some kind of nymph with her blue eyes and full lips parted like rose petals. She’s not even wearing make-up. Eponine scowls as she blushes.

“Dance with me!” Cosette tugs Eponine’s hands from out where they rested underneath her arms, pulling her into a spin with a laugh.

“Cosette!” Eponine whines yet the corners of her lips quirk anyway.

Cosette continues to giggle as they spin, and Eponine finds herself unable to resist the way Cosette drapes her arms around her waist. She loops her arms around Cosette’s neck; Cosette leans against her forehead with a triumphant smile that has no right to be as utterly charming as it is. Eponine leans in further and tries to kiss it off her.

“Mmph!” Cosette, as red as Eponine when they part, still smiles.

“I made you coffee.” She whispers, reaching to take Eponine’s hands in her own and squeeze them.

Eponine perks up instantly as Cosette laughs. Eponine rolls her eyes as Cosette pulls her towards their kitchenette.

“You’re lucky you’re cute this early in the morning.”


	15. The World Still Deceives You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius tries not to dwell on earlier mistakes and fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while trying to work out insecurities of my own, hence the darker nature of this piece. Trigger warning for anxiety. Title comes from a line in Noah and the Whale's "Jocasta."

The candlelight grows dimmer the more the moon becomes pronounced in the sky. Marius tries not to dwell on this as his right hand rushes across the page and his eyes start to burn from glancing at the same verse of German poetry for an hour. His head aches; his fingers tighten around his pen even as they, too, hurt. He bites on his lip as he attempts to concentrate.

His gaze lands on the mud-stained book shoved to the back corner of his desk and then the tears lurking in the crevices of his eyes spill over as his pen falls from his grasp. He winces as he tries desperately not to sob, recalling the incident from earlier that morning in which he accidentally stumbled into another student.

Marius’ foolishness caused both of them to spill their supplies onto the mud-soaked ground, and he had apologized profusely to the lankier man as he attempted to help him gather his books first. The other student, a dandy to judge by the style of his dress, had refused with a sneer plastered to his attractive features. The disdainful ire in his eyes reminded Marius of his grandfather and kept him kneeling in the mud.

He had not given Marius a name, implying that he should already know it. He had not yelled, but instead spoken with the soft malice of one looking for an occasion to shed blood. Marius, pale and trembling, allowed for the other man’s words to sink into his skin the way his grandfather’s used to do, swallowing down his tears all the while.

He had never before felt so grateful for Courfeyrac’s absence when he stumbled back into their apartment in his soiled clothing, clutching his ruined textbook to his chest like a child.

He still hasn’t changed, he realizes between haphazard intakes of breath. He hasn’t done much of anything since arriving home except to try and throw himself into his work. He attempted to eat an hour ago, but his stomach shut itself away from the mere fragrance of bread. He kept trying to entice himself, yet even thoughts of food only served to further harden the resolve of his stubborn lack of appetite.

He can’t stop the tears as they fall faster down his face. He clutches at his cheeks as though he might wring out the rest of them with the strength of his nails clawing into his skin. He tells himself to stop being useless as he trembles harder. His thoughts clash against each other like the sea spray of raging waves; he flails internally like a drowning man to overcome them. In the end, the last of the candlelight fades into the shadows beside him. His tears subside yet the aching throughout his body never stops.

He sags back against his chair, hands falling to his sides. He tilts his head to meet the pitying gaze of the moon before his eyes close and he sinks against his will into sleep.


	16. Fashion Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius is a more capable pupil of Courfeyrac's than Courfeyrac realizes.

“I am not changing no matter how hard you roll your eyes, Courfeyrac.” Marius announces as he walks into their kitchen dressed in a raggedy, striped t-shirt and jeans stained from excessive use. Courfeyrac has previously threatened to burn the entire ensemble a hundred times previous to this sweltering July morning, though he’s never actually succeeded. (For all his puppy-dog smiles and comical innocence, Marius proves himself a very capable pupil of Courfeyrac’s with the way he sometimes uses his large, pouty lips as a means of distraction. Courfeyrac tries to stay annoyed with him, but then Marius mewls as he sucks on his tongue and all hope of irritation, let alone coherency, is lost.)

On cue, the dark haired man rotates his eyes so hard that they might pop themselves out of his head as he sips from his steaming cup of coffee.

“You’re being ridiculous, even by your standards.”

Courfeyrac keeps his gaze on the largest stain near the ankle of Marius’ jeans, sighing around his next intake of caffeine.

“I always wear jeans in the summer.” Marius shrugs as he makes his way over to the refrigerator, pausing when he finds his usual cup of orange juice already prepared for him on the counter. “Oh. Thank you, Courfeyrac.”

“If you want to properly thank me, you’ll burn those jeans.” Courfeyrac finishes his coffee just as a sprinkling of pink emerges from beneath the lankier boy’s freckles. “Or I could just tear them off of you myself.”

Marius tries to hide himself behind his glass as he gulps desperately at his orange juice, his face bursting from pink to full-on red in the span of a few seconds. Courfeyrac quirks an eyebrow, both amused and mystified by his blushing abilities until the way Marius refuses to meet his gaze suddenly strikes him.

“Marius, did you…dress badly on purpose?”

Marius pivots away from him, mumbling what sounds like “maybe” into his drink. Courfeyrac saunters over to him, unable to keep the satisfied smirk off his face.

He pries the almost empty glass from Marius’ hands before his own snake around the skinner boy’s waist, tugging him into his chest.  He nuzzles the back of Marius’ neck as he squirms and mumbles nonsensical explanations.

“I was trying to seduce you.” Marius finally blurts out with a whimper as Courfeyrac starts pressing open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

Courfeyrac pulls back for a moment to spin Marius to face him. He previously thought he couldn’t fall more in love with the man in his arms; his chest tightens like a balloon fit to burst.

“Well, it worked.” He tells Marius, delighting in the way his eyes widen like lily pads and his smile blooms in the midst of his reddened face. “I’ve fully corrupted you. I’m so proud!”

“Real – mmph!”

Courfeyrac kisses Marius with a smile of his own, tackling him to the floor while slipping a hand to the zipper of his jeans.

They never do make it to the bedroom. 


	17. Combeferre’s No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre has a stressful day. Courfeyrac and Enjolras help him relax with excessive cuddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Julia who needed cheering up and wanted excessive snuggling. Originally posted to Tumblr, I thought I'd post it here as well.

“Courfeyrac, you are absolutely absurd.” Combeferre grumbles, shifting his collection of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poems to various angles in order to avoid the bundle of dark curls currently strewn across his lap.

After a long, rather stressful day of examinations and then yet another meeting spent mediating an argument between Grantaire and Enjolras, (not to mention the missed busstop and his book bag tearing just as it began to downpour), Combeferre fled to the sanctuary of the apartment he currently rents with Bahorel, taking solace in the knowledge that Bahorel, out prowling the bars with Grantaire, would not return until much later that evening.

Instead he opened the door to find Courfeyrac sprawled across his second hand sofa, twiddling his thumbs in the manner of a bored schoolboy. Combeferre muttered briefly about spare keys and regrets before going to make them both tea.

Combeferre glances over at his abandoned cup of tea, surely cold now, and sighs as Courfeyrac grins up at him from beneath his wild hair.

“Yes, and you’re ridiculously uptight and need to relax. Get down here and cuddle with me.” Courfeyrac exaggerates his lips into a pout that causes the corners of Combeferre’s mouth to twitch. Still, the stubborn part of him mulling over his unfortunate day refuses to relinquish to his friend’s demands.

“Courfeyrac, I am trying to read. I’m too tired to cuddle.” Combeferre lowers the book as he rolls his eyes at his companion. “Please leave me be.”

He is so caught up in fighting Courfeyrac’s puppy-like eyes (puppy-like everything, really), he never distinguishes the light patter of footsteps coming from his bedroom behind him.

“Which is exactly why you need a cuddle in the first place.”

Combeferre starts at the new, yet familiar voice and the hand that plucks his volume of poetry from him, tossing it clear across the room.

“Enjolras? Where did you even – hey!”

Combeferre never gets the chance to finish his question as Courfeyrac bounds up from his lap and Enjolras plops down beside him to tackle him to the floor. He flails like a fish out of water as both Courfeyrac and Enjolras settle on either side of him, effectively sandwiching him between them.

“I came here straight from the meeting to nap.” Enjolras states, the warmth of his breath brushing against Combeferre’s chest like a gentle sea breeze. His golden curls almost tickle as they fall across the bare skin of Combeferre’s neck. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“And I followed him using skills I’ve picked up from my favorite stray roommate!” Courfeyrac cheerfully adds, nuzzling against Combeferre’s cheek in such a way that Combeferre has no choice but to break out into a grin of his own as his eyelids begin to flutter.

“Why do I even put up with the pair of you?” He asks, though his tone is wistful.

“Because you love us.” Courfeyrac replies, draping one arm to reach over Combeferre’s chest and rest against Enjolras’ shoulder. Combeferre’s head droops so that his forehead leans against that of Courfeyrac.

“Also, cuddle piles.” Enjolras says as he lowers his head so that his nose rests on Combeferre’s neck.

Combeferre lets out yet another sigh before bursting into giggles, a sure sign of defeat.


	18. Chamomile Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette comes home after dealing with a crappy boss; Eponine comforts her. Modern AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables.

Cosette comes home like a storm, golden hair tangled and blue eyes flashing through the red rings surrounding them; the door slams into place behind her. She drops her book bag on their living room floor and sinks into the sofa just barely holding itself together in the left corner.

“Who do I have to kill tonight?” Eponine demands, swinging down from the island counter dividing their living room from their kitchenette to plop next to Cosette on the couch. She immediately nuzzles into her neck, which trembles still as Cosette sniffles above her.

“It’s nothing. It’s fine.” She tries to brush it off as Eponine runs one hand through her long, mussed up hair.

“Cosette, you’ve always been too honest for your own good.” She leans in and plants a kiss on her nose, delighting in the small smile that breaks out across Cosette’s face. “Come on, tell me who it is so I can kick their ass.”

Her grin widens as Cosette leans in to press their foreheads together, Cosette’s resigned sigh colliding against Eponine’s skin gentle yet uneven, like sea water.

“My boss thinks I’m standing about too much when cleaning shelves. When I tried to explain myself, he only got more irate. When I tried to apologize, he replied, ‘if you’re apologizing, I guess you have something to be sorry for.’”

“That fucking dick. I’ll give _him_ something to be sorry for.” She tugs so that Cosette ends up half on the couch, half on her lap.

“Eponine, really, don’t-”

“No one talks about my girl like that and gets away unscathed.” She promises just as the piercing shriek of the kettle goes off from the kitchen.

“Now.” Eponine bears her teeth wickedly, moving one arm under Cosette’s legs to lift her up, kicking and giggling like an overexcited child. “Let’s plot his murder over tea.”

She struggles, but manages to carry Cosette and drop her on one of the stools by the counter. She turns to prepare mugs for them both when Cosette pulls her forward into a hungry kiss.

Eponine swears she sees stars when they part a few moments later. She tears away from Cosette only to fill their favorite, mint green mugs so that they almost overflow; Cosette eagerly grabs at hers when Eponine settles onto the stool beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

They sneak outlandish situations and more kisses in between sips of chamomile tea.


	19. Knew Them Well and Welcomed Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opens his eyes and decides to hell with waiting for his tea to fully cool; he gulps down the liquid and winces as it burns his tongue the same way his grandfather’s words used to scald him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for potentially triggering anxiety issues. 
> 
> Title comes from the Oh-Hello's song, "The Lament of Eustace Scrubb."

Marius clutches the worn, brown cup like a child grasping at air even as the heat of it almost burns his skin. He inhales the steam rising in lethargic, serpentine patterns above his grasp and tries not to dwell on the guilt settling in his stomach like soured milk. He frowns at the lavender tea as though it were at fault for the events of that morning.

Echoes of the pressure weighing on his chest linger in his bones, as does the nausea that threatened to overcome him as soon as he ran into his grandfather on his way to work. He shuts his eyes as the aftertaste of not being able to breathe properly sticks to the roof of his mouth like blood; the disappointment so very evident in his grandfather’s lack of saying anything at all catches in his throat.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at such a reaction, considering the length of time since he last saw his grandfather. Just over a year, he thinks. Just over a year of the kind of happiness he could barely fathom as a child, and with one slight brush against the rigid shoulders of his past, he all but toppled right back into his grandiose, stifling childhood.

He opens his eyes and decides to hell with waiting for his tea to fully cool; he gulps down the liquid and winces as it burns his tongue the same way his grandfather’s words used to scald him. He starts when he hears the familiar creak of the front door opening. Fuck. He doesn’t want Courfeyrac to find him like this. He almost tumbles from his awkward perch on the bed in his haste to make himself less of a ridiculous mess.

He manages to right himself, shoving the tea onto their rickety end table before beginning to wipe furiously at his bloodshot eyes. He curses under his breath as a good portion of tea ends up on his stupidly white work shirt just as footsteps pound like drumbeats closer to the closed bedroom door.

He turns around and buries his face in his hands just as he registers the turning of the knob and the creaking of the opening door.

“Marius?” Courfeyrac’s voice is softer than usual, without its usual, teasing lilt. Marius bites down on his lip and fidgets before answering.

“Did Cosette tell you?” His own voice sounds as though it were dragged through brambles. Shame makes him curl in on himself even tighter; Courfeyrac cautiously walks closer to him.

“She texted me just after you left work.” Suddenly, Courfeyrac’s voice springs from just behind his ear as a pair of sturdy, warm arms wrap around his waist and pull him into an even sturdier chest. “She told me everything. How are you feeling now?”

“Shitty.” Marius says without hesitation, as he raises his arms to entangle with Courfeyrac. Though he squirms slightly, discomforted by the exposure of his damp eyes and trembling fingers, Courfeyrac’s presence inspires honesty in him. “Tea’s helping, sort of. I still might be sick.”

“And I’ll hold your hair back if you are.” Courfeyrac says before pressing a warm, lingering kiss in the middle of his cheek. Marius giggles a bit before turning to face Courfeyrac. Concern dims his typically cheerful countenance, such in the way he sometimes gets talking politics with Combeferre and Enjolras. Marius finds himself shaking again at the sight of it.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Courfeyrac whispers, stealing a kiss before Marius buries his head into his shoulder. “You don’t have to be fine, not in front of me.”

The tears he didn’t shed this morning rain down his face now, pooling in the peach wool of Courfeyrac’s sweater. He shakes and he cries, clutching at Courfeyrac the way he once grasped at his deceased father’s letters.

Courfeyrac whispers to him, kind, gentle whispers that warm him like the steam rising from his tea. His chest aches, his whole body trembles; he can’t stop himself from crying as Courfeyrac maneuvers them to lay down upon the bed.

As they curl in on each other, Courfeyrac takes hold of his hands and squeezes. Marius’ stomach churns and his breathing comes in ragged; he breathes in the tenderness absent in his youth and closes his eyes.


	20. Disruptive Reindeer Antlers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius is fond of dark corners; Eponine and Cosette prefer the space just below the mistletoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to write self-indulgent mistletoe fic and uh, this turned out longer than expected.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Mis; this is all purely for recreational purposes.

The party is in full swing around Marius, slightly inebriated smiles meandering in between hideous sweaters and tackier decorations as old as his grandfather. He sips slowly from his cup of eggnog spiced with whatever alcohol Bahorel deemed fit for the occasion, keeping to the corner of Joly’s living room next to the drinks and food. His feet twitch almost in time to the cheesiest rendition of “Deck the Halls” he’s ever heard, which means Courfeyrac most likely had a hand in selecting the music for tonight’s party.

Courfeyrac. Right. His nose crinkles around his drink as he avoids staring overly long at his Disney-levels-of exuberant roommate, bouncing between various circles of people in his ridiculous reindeer antlers and stupidly green sweater that fits him like a well-wrapped present. Marius pointedly fixes his gaze on Grantaire dancing with Musichetta with all the grace of a pair of figure skaters as his stomach continues its own acrobatics from earlier in the evening.

“Pray tell, what’s so fascinating about this corner?” Bossuet brushes against his shoulder as he comes to stand next to Marius. The crinkles around his eyes reassure Marius in the same way his casual, off-white sweatshirt and tattered jeans do. He manages a grin as Bossuet claps him companionably on the shoulder, focusing his gaze back on the party.

“I’m just really fond of dark corners?” He tries for nonchalance and fails, blushing behind his drink as Cosette catches Eponine under the mistletoe for what must be the twentieth time this evening. His blush increases further as the girls all but wrap themselves around each other, fingers tangling in hair as they try to keep themselves from crashing to the floor.

“Some of our more affectionate lovebirds could use some of that fondness, themselves.” Bossuet remarks before sipping from his own red Solo cup. “You should really just talk to him already.”

“I can’t.” Marius almost whispers, chewing on his bottom lip and fidgeting with his own drink. “What if-”

“Life is too short for what-ifs and law school, friend.” Bossuet grins at him, his cheeks rosy from the alcohol and the warmth of so many bodies in a fairly small space. “At the very least, come join us.” He jerks his head to where Jehan, Enjolras, and Combeferre are engaged in some kind of debate, flailing hand gestures and all. “We could use some of your Germanic expertise.”

Marius shrugs and gulps down more of his drink before following Bossuet, figuring that, at the very least, he can’t embarrass himself more than when he first engaged in political debate with Combeferre last year.

\---

“But that’s the beauty of Beethoven, really. He’s in between the classical and romantic movements!”

With his first drink finished, Marius manages to quell his apprehension as he argues for the merit of German composers with Jehan, Combeferre and Enjolras having left a few minutes prior to go help Joly with more food.

He makes emphatic hand gestures as he speaks, conscious of the speed with which his words fall from his lips, like snowflakes, and the heat pooling in his cheeks. He’s buzzed enough to disregard how often his glance falls upon Courfeyrac, dark curls bouncing as he laughs with Bahorel and Azelma, and sober enough to still keep his distance.

“It’s like, the best of both worlds, really.” Marius says, abruptly looking to the grey, carpeted floor when Courfeyrac meets his gaze.

“And of course, we’re still talking about music.” Jehan’s smug tone draws an indignant huff from Marius.

He makes to reply when a sudden arm drapes across his neck and an abundance of wisteria fragrance clogs his nose.

“Hello darling.” Strands of Cosette’s hair brush across his face and Marius can’t help but grin at the use of his old pet name from when they used to date.  “Jehan, dear. Do you mind if I borrow Marius for a bit?”

“Go ahead.” He says, the corners of his lips twitching far too often around his drink for Marius’ liking as Cosette whisks him away.

“I have something I want to show you.” She giggles as she leads them in the direction of the kitchen. Marius wonders if the churning in his stomach has to do with the impish lilt underlying Cosette’s words or the eggnog.

“A new tattoo?” He guesses, catching blurred movement out of the corner of his eye, another pair with their arms wrapped together. He figures it must be Musichetta with either Bossuet or Joly.

“No, but I am getting another one soon.” Cosette says as they halt just before the archway dividing Joly’s living room and kitchen. “I’m thinking of – oops, silly me, I think I’ve had too much to drink!”

Cosette twirls in the worst exaggeration of a fall Marius has ever seen, all but shoving Marius into the kitchen. He flails, bracing himself for the floor; he crashes into an evergreen chest, instead. Sturdy arms reach out to steady him as eyes like hot chocolate hold him place. With the reindeer antlers atop his dark curls, Courfeyrac appears even more like an elven creature than usual. Marius finds his breath keeping pace with his rapid heartbeat; he doesn’t have to look up to acknowledge the weight of the mistletoe above him or the way his hands shake clutching the fabric of Courfeyrac’s sweater.

He tries to speak but his words die at the sight of Eponine giggling from just behind Courfeyrac. He feels the blush as it deepens on his skin like the outlines of stars in the night sky.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Courfeyrac grins at him and, despite the rush of emotions swirling within him, Marius grins back in return.

He’s struck suddenly by the strength of Courfeyrac’s grip still around his wrists; his breath catches when he recognizes the shade of red coloring the other man’s cheeks.

He glances up at the plastic plant above them and decides to hell with his remaining reservations. He leans in and kisses Courfeyrac quickly, before he can lose his nerve. He gasps when Courfeyrac moves his arms to tug him closer by the waist, deepening the kiss; their lips push and pull with the determination of bare feet tearing through sand, Marius shivering as Courfeyrac’s hands tighten around him.

Marius brings his hands to tangle in Courfeyrac’s hair as various whoops and variations of “finally!” ring out from the party around them. They break apart only when one of Courfeyrac’s antlers hits Marius in the face.

“Oh.” Marius laughs, almost entirely out of breath as he leans into Courfeyrac, who laughs just as breathlessly with him.

“Oh, indeed. We should’ve been doing that a lot sooner.” Courfeyrac kisses him on the nose. “Apologies about the antlers, by the way.”

“It’s fine.” Marius assures him before kissing him again. The kiss just starts to deepen when they find themselves shoved even further into the kitchen.

“Our turn!” Eponine sing-songs as she pulls Cosette to her with a devilish glint in her eye.

“You’ve had, like, twenty turns already.” Marius points out as Courfeyrac pulls him to his chest.

“Your point?” Cosette giggles as Eponine starts kissing down her neck.   

Marius rolls his eyes just as Courfeyrac whispers.

“Guess we’ve got some catching up to do.”


	21. Coffee Stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their car breaks down, Courfeyrac teaches Marius the wonders of shitty diner coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a post on tumblr calling for more "diners in the middle of nowhere at one in the morning." Modern AU.
> 
> I wrote this awhile ago and just thought I'd post it here as well as Tumblr.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Mis.

Marius wrinkles his nose at the steaming cup of coffee Courfeyrac slides over to him.

“But I hate coffee.” He whines a bit, tentatively reaching towards the off-white mug before pulling back abruptly, as though his hand had brushed against a spider. He tries not to yawn and fails. Courfeyrac’s eyes crinkle; the corners of his lips twitch as he gulps down his own drink.

“Yes, but it’s one thirty in the morning, we’ve got nowhere else to be, and I need you awake just in case the engine miraculously changes its mind.” Courfeyrac tosses him a couple of packets claiming to be sugar. Marius cringes at their vibrant yellow labels before tossing them to the side.

They’d decided to spend that Sunday, their mutual day off, driving aimlessly through the country in a car belonging to Courfeyrac’s cousin, Jack. Jack, it seemed, had forgotten to inform them of a faulty engine. They had been on the scenic route back from an old museum when the car began making noises like Courfeyrac attempting to whistle before promptly stopping altogether. It had been midnight then, and Marius might have been in the middle of falling asleep on Courfeyrac’s shoulder while their entwined hands rested on Courfeyrac’s lap.

“That’s like asking Bahorel not to follow when Grantaire leads everyone in a round of drinks.” Marius points out now, still actively avoiding his warm beverage much to Courfeyrac’s amusement. They’d been lucky to find this old diner, Corinne’s, within walking distance from the car and still open even at such a mad hour.

“Or asking you to concede when Combeferre bests you in an argument.” Courfeyrac replies, crooked grin twisting his features into even more of a roguish mask than usual while Marius stutters and blushes. “And that pout of yours is almost as adorable as your blush, so good luck if you think that’s going to discourage me.”

Marius pouts harder as Courfeyrac pinches the corners of his cheeks. His face feels ready to burst into flame at any given moment.

“Okay, okay. Point taken.” He grumbles through the steam rising from his cup. Yet he feels a pang when Courfeyrac brings his hand back to his own mug a moment later.

“And so very gracious too! Now, drink up. I promise you’ll feel better!” Courfeyrac keeps his bright eyes on Marius from around his drink as he sips. The heat refuses to leave Marius’ face as he tries not to focus his gaze entirely on Courfeyrac’s plump lips.

Marius had been half in whatever dream he had been falling into as Courfeyrac guided them into Corinne’s faded auburn doors. Even now drowsiness threatens to overcome his huddled form hunched over the “rustic” (abysmally stained and cracked) counter of the diner. He blinks rapidly and sighs.

“That’s the spirit!” Courfeyrac cheers, much to the chagrin of the patron at the very end of the counter, a middle-aged man clinging to his plate of toast and overly runny eggs as though for dear life.

Marius brings the mug to his mouth, the dark liquid swirling like the clouds in the sky they’d seen earlier in the day. After a minute of staring down the substance as though it were his grandfather, he finally decides the hell with it and raises the drink to his lips.

“Well?” Courfeyrac asks, head tilted like a curious dog just as the drink meets Marius’ tongue.

He thinks he deserves some kind of credit for not outright gagging. He chokes, yes, but he manages to retain all liquid and even swallow it down. He knows he’s making ridiculous faces by the way Courfeyrac’s eyes shine and his hand pats his shoulder in reassurance.

“That is the most horrid, atrocious…how can you even _like_ such a wretched drink?” He flails his arms the way he always does when excited, accidentally hitting his coffee and sending it crashing to the floor. “Fuck.”

“Oh Marius.” Courfeyrac’s curls, almost the exact shade of Marius’ coffee, bounce in time with his laughter. “This is why I adore you.”

Courfeyrac pulls him forward by the collar of his sweater then and kisses him with the same intensity with which they woke up that morning. He tastes like the bitter awfulness of coffee, but with sugar and the remnants of the ice cream they stopped for mixed in. Marius savors the sweetness, thinks he could learn to appreciate coffee from such a taste.

Courfeyrac tangles one hand in the unruly mess of his hair while latching the other onto Marius’ on the counter. Marius gasps into his mouth. His free hand clings to the fabric of Courfeyrac’s sweatshirt just as he begins to pull away. The man at the end of the counter pushes his plate away and leaves, muttering something about “goddamn youths” just as their waitress comes into view, brown eyes alight with stuck-in-a-crappy-shift fury.

Courfeyrac grins at Marius even as his chest heaves.

“See, the thing about shitty diner coffee? It always tastes better in someone else’s mouth.”


	22. Ready To Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius can never really keep secrets, living with Courfeyrac. Modern AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because I've missed writing these dorks and I love them a lot. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Les Mis; this is for recreational purposes only. I also don't own Gabrielle Aplin's song, "Ready To Question," which is quoted within the story and serves as the inspiration for the title of it as well.

Marius is one of those people who still owns a Walkman, or, rather, an obvious knock-off of one because not only does he lack the funds for a proper iPod, he can’t even afford a genuine Walkman. He found it at a second-hand shop mixed in with a bunch of old, cheesy pop CDs from the ‘90s, and since then, it’s become his closest companion whenever he finds himself alone, which, lately, isn’t often, but still happens in regular enough occurrences that he has gone through two pairs of headphones. (One for falling apart under his two left feet, the other for entangling itself around a door handle.)

Tonight, he finds himself on his own, as Courfeyrac is still helping Combeferre with some kind of project observing different kinds of natural medicines. Knowing his boyfriend’s habits by now, Marius expects him in by ten, at the earliest. Currently, the clock in their tiny kitchenette reads 8:45, giving him plenty of time to indulge in one of his favorite, most deeply hidden habits: dancing around their living room, singing with as much passion as though he were a character in a musical.

He’s been dancing around for just about twenty minutes now, a CD Cosette burned for him last week to which he’s already grown deeply attached; he has every lyric memorized and a preferential order of his favorite songs on the album. He has already listened to his absolute favorite song three times, and as it comes on again, he finds himself unable to resist giving his all to the song.

“Is there anyone listening? I don’t know.” He all but belts out, arms spread wide as he twirls about the room, just barely avoiding the crappy, puke-green colored armchair donated to their apartment by Grantaire. In this state he is, of course, oblivious to the creaking of the front door and the weary footsteps coming through it.

It’s only when he accidentally rips his headphones out in the middle of another twirl that Marius catches sight of Courfeyrac’s disbelieving face.

“…Shit,” is all he manages to blurt out as a deep pink spreads across his face. He doesn’t last more than twenty seconds in the awkward silence that follows, quickly fleeing to their bedroom where he buries his head under the dark brown pillows on the bed, praying to a god that really hasn’t ever listened to him before now for the blankets to swallow him whole.

Of course, his prayers go unanswered; he barely registers Courfeyrac’s approach over his own mortified recollection of the incident but he does feel the dip of the mattress as the other man first sits upon the bed. For a few moments, neither of them say anything.

The warmth of Courfeyrac’s hand upon his shoulder eventually leads Marius to relent his death grip on the pillows over his head. He emerges from his hiding place still beet red, but he feels more able to face Courfeyrac, who looks at him with a familiar expression of mixed amusement and outright affection.

“Marius, dear. What would I do without your ridiculous absurdities in my life?” He tugs Marius forward halfway onto his lap, wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling fervently at the back of his neck.

Marius wants to apologize, wants to find a way to excuse his ludicrous singing and dancing, but Courfeyrac anticipates this reaction and begins kissing just behind his ear, a proven weak spot that makes Marius shiver and let out a small whimper.

“You needn’t ever apologize to me about letting out your inner Fred Astaire,” Courfeyrac promises him in between kisses. “Not when you make such marvelous hand motions, darling.”

Courfeyrac’s lips brush over another ticklish spot; Marius lets out a breathless giggle before turning to face Courfeyrac and kissing him full on the mouth. Hands entwine with locks of hair and lips press insistently against lips.

Marius forgets to be embarrassed.


End file.
